


Horatio

by fakespeare



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M, hamlets a ghost, horatio is gonna write a play, i think ophelia deserved better, kind of shippy im not sure, may get dark if i ever decide to update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakespeare/pseuds/fakespeare
Summary: Horatio thought his work was over, Hamlet thinks otherwise.
Relationships: Hamlet/Horatio (Hamlet)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Horatio

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i usually don't write this kind of thing, but its been in my drafts for awhile and i thought i'd just go ahead and share it  
> not sure what to expect out of this or if i'll continue it for more, but if i ever do i'll make sure to update  
> i'm 100% winging all of this  
> but you know what? if shakespeare can write king leer during his quarantine then i can certainly write a shitty hamlet fic during my own.  
> ok thats all byee

✦✦✦

It had been fifteen years since Horatio clutched onto the prince during his dying moments, squeezing him close so that his spasms didn’t look so harsh in front of the already horrified onlookers. There were so many bodies that night, so much emotion, so much tragedy. The mess of scattered swords and smeared streaks of blood against marble, the rotten stench of wine, and the emptiness he filled in the vast, yet quiet hall. Nothing but ringing and the echoing thumps of distant drums in his ears. He’d never forget the twitches, the sprawled limbs of his once dearest friend, the froth that came from his mouth. How cold their bodies felt next to each other, against the warmth of his blood that pooled under him. His pupils, something Horatio had personally admired the most, staring him down like daggers before fogging away to a painful stillness. 

A body truly felt heavier when dead.

✦✦✦

The following years went by like the calm after the storm, melancholy moments of grief and tension and a whole lot of quiet. Fortinbras, claiming the land as he had been promised and Horatio, solemnly finishing his years in Wittenberg. Laertes was long buried with his family, proudly proclaimed for his courage and bold acts. He was loved by the people, as he was believed to have stood for them. Reluctantly, Claudius and Gertrude had been buried within the family vault, their tombs sat next to the old king Hamlet, despite the irony it radiated. As for Hamlet himself, he was done the same, resting in the back of the catacomb in a typically carved royal tomb. He was loved just as well.

Horatio was able to see him during a private viewing before he had been set, his face rigid and firm as his mind buzzed to remember every feature of his face before he was to be covered. He’d never seen him like this before, calm, relaxed. His last moments were that of a rage he had never seen upon any man, a raw intensity that choked a voice and strained an expression to its brink. It was harrowing, inhuman. And now? Hamlet was asleep as if none of that happened, with gentle eyes, a slightly parted mouth, and limp, delicate hands. The hands that once was responsible for horrific acts of treason and murder, now laid carefully on his stomach, weighing down the bundle of carnations and baby’s breath that enveloped his silhouette.

Horatio just found that grim.

His time in Wittenberg was nothing but boring, he found his passion for literature and philosophy died down to something of commonplace, only doing what he was expected and nothing more. He no longer felt the bubbling in his lungs to speak aloud to his seminars, no longer felt the need to take up so many hours studying, and definitely no longer felt the need to try anything beyond what was passing. As disappointed as he was in himself, he still graduated and was left with a hole in his chest and a lack of a future. 

That was until he received the unexpected invitation from King Fortinbras himself to help with courtly and kingly decisions as a royal advisory. He had no choice but to accept the offer, both as a reason to return to Elsinore and to establish himself back into society, claiming a permanent spot in higher status. He’d be set for life, and hopefully, would find meaning again. Hamlet would’ve wanted this for him. And that’s reason enough to try. 

✦✦✦

Horatio had then been working as an advisor for nearly a decade, trailing himself beside the king and assisting when asked. Otherwise, he was busy within the castle walls, writing and shuffling through official documents or bickering with other staff. His life was settled, secure, scheduled. He had found purpose, physically more than emotionally. He was still miserable as he was in Wittenberg, but by keeping his hands busy, he didn’t have the time to dwell on thoughts and ‘would-have-been’s. 

His age had treated him poorly, his face was dark and sharp with it’s rough features and his black hair speckled with various shades of grey. His skin, taunt and scarred among his freckled arms, and his eyes, now a muted shade and left half lidded. He was in a constant state of tiredness and his voice followed along with monotone and droughted speech. And yet he remained next to the throne, where he always somehow seemed to prove himself worthy of staying. Possibly the king had grown fond of his presence, possibly he pitied him, knowing if he were anywhere else, he’d be dead as well. 

What Horatio hadn’t made obvious was his bottled madness, slowly welting up within him the more he lurked in Denmark. The slightest things ticked him off: a blonde head, dark clothing, crowns, cursive, by God, even a nice piece of furniture had the ability to grip and squeeze at his slow beating heart. Sheer reminders of his past, of the old royalty, of Hamlet. He never had gotten used to his subtle shivering whenever he walked into the hall that once held those four corpses. Or the numbness he felt everytime he walked past their painted portraits. He could never shake off the feeling that he was being watched. But still, unlike them, Horatio had the ability to keep modest and humble, chewing at his cheek or scratching at his arms instead of spouting his emotions and lashing out. He had found new ways to pent his fears. And that was through himself. 

✦✦✦

On a particularly special night, Horatio was busy in his room, dressed in his comfortable robes next to a flickering candle. His leg bounced on the floor, hunched over yet another one of his various books while his hand played with a page, the other drumming itself on a half full glass. He’d spend most of his free time doing such when he wasn’t being yanked about the yard. Just writing, reading, and paying attention to none of it. Just something to pass hours and give himself a break from his mind’s cruel thoughts. 

He exhaled a small breath and lifted the glass to his lips, taking a small sip of the wine before setting it back down and returning to his work. 

He looked up from the book and raised his brow once his window pane began to shudder and rattle. At first, he passed it all off as just wind, but once the latch undone itself and gusted the panels open with a loud clatter, the breeze from outside blowing the candlelight and leaving the room in a dark blue, he knew it was something more. He jolted and lifted his hands from his book, springing from his seat with a yelp.

He watched as his glass then tipped itself over and crashed into shards on the ground, the wine that was once in it staining the carpet and puddling. His book slammed shut and a thick, pale fog began to seep in from the outside and fill the room up to the middle of Horatio’s shins. 

“Hah-!” He could only muster in his state of shock, backing away and stumbling amongst the clouds. He found himself moving forward to close the window, but once his head lifted, he was met with a ghostly figure, causing him to knock himself down to the ground with a breathless scream. It looked furious towards him, scrunching it’s nose and furrowing it’s brows, floating mere inches from the ground and clenching it’s fists and jaw in silent insanity. 

“God has read me of sin! What have I done to deserve this!” Horatio fumbled in his cries, his horrified stature crumbled onto the ground of his bedroom and the heels of his shoes kicking erratically against the floorboards as he found himself constantly backing away, despite being so flush against the wall. He was cornered, scared into a state of immovable, sweaty shivering. Above him, the very Dane of Denmark, whom he knew all too well.

Hamlet.

✦✦✦

“Mark me.” Hamlet finally bellowed, standing himself in front, his transparent, smoking figure reaching for his old friend. He was pale, disheveled, with the same torn clothes he had worn the night he passed, except for the wound grazing his waist, still dark maroon and sopped like Horatio remembered, yet somehow dripping and leaving the wood untinted. His eyes showed nothing in them, no iris, no veins, just a glowing yellow and a gloss that only the undead could speak of. Horror, in it’s purest form.

“You don’t listen to me-“ The ghost hissed again, baring his teeth until the gums of his hollow mouth peeked. “Mark me, Horatio!”

The room shook, the scholar flinched. “I see you.” Horatio replied breathlessly, his chest rapidly rising and falling against his own will. “Against all I have sworn, I do! Oh, God, my Lord-“

“Then you will face me like the coward you are. You will face me as you will face the consequence of your sloth.”

“Sloth?” He cautiously keened, his hands clinging to the wall behind him, ever so slightly pushing up to lean himself towards the spirit, desperate to catch a closer view. Was it really him? Had he gone crazy?

“I am but a cautionary tale in Elsinore. Not of adultery, incest, or murder, but of a child scolded far too late. Has my death nothing more than a reason to ease a conscience? Nothing more than a new king at my throne? Do you still hold me in your heart, Horatio? Or has your insolence turned it to coal? So thus my name be muffled over to be replaced with folktale than protector of the family crest?”

“I don’t understand-“

“My story.” Hamlet answered, scrunching his nose even more and digging his nails into his palm, the blood that couldn’t possibly be still flowing in his system rising to his angry cheeks. “You never _told_ it as I intended. And now Claudius burns in only one life and is left simply another dead king in the other.” 

Instantly, the tremors in Horatio’s lanky body faded, heat rising to his cheeks the same as he realized his awful mistake. Hamlet meant it on that marble floor. He meant it, of course he meant it, he means everything that comes from his mouth. Not _everything_ , but just the obvious portions. The obvious portions Horatio’s scholar brain decided to fuzz over until long too late. This wasn’t a one time story situation, Hamlet wanted more than an occasional telling, he wanted elaborate, _of course_ he wanted elaborate! He wanted _more_. Justice had not been fully executed-

“Oh, Oh Lord! You’ve come to gut me!” He peeped with childish fear, going back to his state of fright. 

“Do not mock me. I need nothing with your _bowels_. I have been dragged from my place of rest with unfinished business and until such is finished, I am bound to this godforsaken soil once more.”

“My Lord, you know there’s nothing more in my heart then my love for you, I-“ Horatio paused, chewing at his thumb nail. “I didn’t think you meant that you wanted me to tell your story _literally_. Word of mouth isn’t suffice enough?”

“Obviously not!” Hamlet boomed, rattling the room along with. He moved closer now, despite the other’s uncomfortable whimper, flicking him on his forehead. “I’m an artist, all stories must be told in a way that others can _feel_! Not just hear!” 

“You- You want me to write a book? Based on such events?” He sputtered back, dumbfounded.

Hamlet’s mouth formed a smile, something Horatio didn’t think he’d ever see again in his lifetime. And though internally he had missed it, seeing it again in another, much less fleshy, body felt more haunting than it did charming. “Precisely. But not just based on, good Horatio! _Is_! _Was_! This is what I want. This is where I want _literal_ to represent! Words, words, words! It is the language of the soul!”

“I’m no proper writer, my Lord-“

“But that’s why i’m here, isn’t it? There’s no choice in this matter, I've given you years to prove yourself to me, I'm not going to let you fail me _again_!” 

Placing his shoes down on the floor, Hamlet calmly strode over to the writing desk, tapping his nail against the book Horatio left open. “I never was a fan of ‘Everyman’ myself. Odd play. Old. Too much death and contemplating-“ He clicked his tongue, cutting himself off to turn back around. “I didn’t know you enjoyed theatre.”

“Only leisurely.” Horatio slowly stood, ringing his still sweaty hands together. “I never understand it.”

Another smile, Hamlet’s own transparent hands taking a hold of the book, leaning his weight on one leg as he casually skimmed through it. “Then we’ll learn. Wouldn’t that be fun? A play instead? Not some puppeteer work with my body with a sputtering improvised speech? But something more _professional_ and trained! If it worked to drive my Uncle to shame, it’ll work to drive the people to their own pathos.”

Horatio’s face dropped to confusion, his hands now still. The ghost only laughed at his reaction, placing the book back down. “You’ll be fine, it’s not like you had anything else important to do. Do you?”

“No, my Lord-“

“Then it’s settled-“ Hamlet frowned, drumming his nails against the cover. “I figured you’d need company.”

✦✦✦


End file.
